


Not Even My Eyes Are Starlight

by ragtags



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst to Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling from Heaven, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Memories, M/M, Pining, Pre-Fall, Secrets, Stargazing, Stars, memory triggers, planetarium - Freeform, planetarium date, space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/pseuds/ragtags
Summary: Crowley remembers everything, except for the things he can’t. He remembers his Fall. He remembers the Heavens that he created. But something is missing. After Aziraphale mentions going to visit a planetarium, Crowley decides to see if this human shrine to his work can help him remember what he’s lost.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 164
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Not Even My Eyes Are Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for taking the time to read this extremely fun, long fanfic that I've been holding on to for some time! I'd like to give a shout out to all my Betas, my artists, and everyone who believed in me through this entire process.
> 
> You can find haileythesato’s art for the fic here: https://eliza--thornberry.tumblr.com/post/190423740423/haileythesato-1-crowley-is-relives-some-painful
> 
> You can find eliza—thornberry’s art for the fic here: https://eliza--thornberry.tumblr.com/post/190423580003/thank-you-he-finally-says-theres-a-moment-of , https://eliza--thornberry.tumblr.com/post/190423569673/crowley-remembers-everything-except-for-the

Crowley remembers almost everything.

In fact, he prides himself on it; especially when it involves past arguments he’s won against Aziraphale. Sometimes though, he realizes, perhaps he remembers too much- it’s just not the right sort of things he wants to remember. 

He remembers the Heavens and he remembers being assigned to work on creating something special just beyond the reaches of Earth. He can remember flying effortlessly through sky and clouds and then the void of space, pumping his wings harder and faster so he could obtain optimal speed as he raced across the baby starlight. He even remembers how terribly She loved “ **_The Sound of Music_ **”, well before its creation. Most of all though, he remembers Her love being there, and wholly enveloping him; seeping into every last atom of his being before being violently ripped out of him. 

Most of all, he remembers Her anger. 

There are also things he can’t remember, but can feel just below his skin. Just out of reach, right below translucent flesh that covers bone and sinew; it’s right there, in the place where veins and a central nervous system should be, if he only had one. It feels like a billion molecular bombs ticking and waiting to explode. Sometimes, he thinks, he can still see them under his skin- tiny little glowing promises from God; billions of little lies She sewed into his creation and forcefully removed without anesthetic. Perhaps that’s it; perhaps that’s his central nervous system- a painful, aching, burning, endless itch that his fingernails just can’t penetrate. 

He’s done his best to ignore it; set it down into the farthest, deepest parts of his brain and lock it up for the remainder of time itself. Most days, Crowley reckons he can live with it, while other days it just seems to be unbearable, but he should be glad that She at least let him remember. Others, like Aziraphale, aren’t so lucky. 

You see, demons are forced to remember; it’s a requirement really. They’re able to recount every moment of their time at the beginning of Their Fall with astonishing accuracy. For Crowley, he was somewhere in the farthest reaches of the Anguis Nebula -a funny joke, you see, for the Latin translation of anguis is snake- and he was quite literally in the middle of building a planet when he Fell. If he closes his eyes, really closes his eyes and concentrates, he can see them dancing; little balls of something hot and white and brilliant swirling across his eyelids. If he concentrates hard enough, long enough, he can even pinpoint what name belongs to which dancing glow. Every time he feels himself getting too close, too incredibly close to reach for one of his creations, the world around him drops out of frame and suddenly it feels like he’s falling.

Angels, on the other hand, are forced to forget. It’s a kind of Law they put into their brains to forget every last piece of every Fallen Angel; at least that’s how Aziraphale had tried to explain it to him once, back on the walls of Eden.

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale had said back then, looking terribly troubled over the entire thing, “but it is...necessary, I suppose.”

“To forget ussss?” Crowley found himself hissing out, yellow serpent eyes wide with surprise.

“To forget those who Rebelled, yes. We must focus on the future, Crawley. So we can atone for your...sins.”

Crowley had balked at that, he remembers. It had been heartbreaking enough to Fall and remember every detail of your own personal Fall, but to hear that the rest of Heaven had been forced to forget? That was an entirely new pain he wasn’t ready for. 

“Gabriel says—” Aziraphale had started, but Crowley had walked off by that point. He didn’t want to hear any more of it. 

Sometimes, though, Crowley wishes Aziraphale could remember. Even if it was just a little part of it. 

Mostly, Crowley wishes Aziraphale could tell him who he was before the Fall. 

Crowley knows, because of course he knows; that he used to work up beyond the Heavens to create the vastness of space. He remembers throwing up ‘artistic visions’ of what he thought a galaxy should look like. Make it pretty, they had told him. Make it look, well, complicated and far beyond the comprehension of anyone’s wildest dreams, and so he did. 

But if you were to ask him who the artist was that created all of them, and ask for them by name, Crowley wouldn’t be able to tell you. Because his name had been ripped from his own memory, too.

Unfortunately, it’s never just as simple as forgetting your name and forgetting whatever it is that’s sitting just below the surface of your skin. There’s also damnation.

Damnation; now that’s a tricky one. It lingers, right there, right behind the frontal lobe of his brain. Sits hovering just in front of closed eyelids. And it’s loud. Lord, is it loud; and bright. It shines as loudly as every neon sign littering Times Square. It’s the cruelest thing She’s done to him. She allows him to remember so much, yet still he can’t seem to find the light of long forgotten solar systems still etched under his skin, and that, _that_ kills him. 

One night, one particularly unspectacular night in 1933- December 12, 1933 to be exact, because Crowley doesn’t forget anything- during the height of The Slump, Crowley found himself lounging inside of Aziraphale’s bookshop just after closing time. The angel had more or less turned his shop into a homemade soup kitchen, and word had spread rather quickly. The once quiet, tiny corner bookshop had become one of the largest kitchens in the country, feeding half the population of London alone. 

Crowley had just returned from a long trip to America.

“What was it you were doing in America, again, dear?” Aziraphale had asked as he moved some used bowls and spoons into a pile to clean later.

“Nothing much. Started prohibition back in 1920. Thought it would be fun to sit around and see how long it took for them to riot.” 

He wasn’t looking, but he swore he could feel Aziraphale’s disgruntled stare from across the shop. No, Crowley was sprawled out across Aziraphale’s sofa with one bottle of American wine in hand, distracted and examining his arm. He swears he can see them, but, perhaps it’s just a trick of the light.

“A planetarium has just opened up,” came the curt voice of Aziraphale a few long moments later. “We should go and see that one of these days.” 

_They’re there. I can see them. But what are they? Why can’t I remember?_ He had been so engrossed in his arms; so much so that Crowley had nearly snapped his neck when Aziraphale spoke of them doing something that wasn’t...part of the Arrangement.

“A wot?”

“A planetarium, dear,” Aziraphale had reiterated, this time making sure to properly enunciate each syllable. Crowley remembers staring at him, shrugging his shoulders as if he should know what that word even meant. 

“Oh, I don’t know. It has to do with the stars, apparently.” 

Something stung gently against Crowley’s wrist when Aziraphale mentioned it; that itching sensation slowly ebbing its way back to the forefront of his mind. He gave a dismissive grunt, sitting up as if by doing that, he could get a better look at his arms.

“It’s a shame,” Aziraphale had sighed, walking over and taking the bottle of wine from Crowley, “Germany was the one to create it. And now _this_.”

“Mmmf,” was all Crowley could manage as he shifted himself under the lights of Aziraphale’s bookshop, standing and shuffling across the place and examining his arms under each light; as if perhaps magnifying them with a light source would help him to better see that which could not be seen.

“Perhaps we can go one day.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft; almost a whisper Crowley didn’t hear as he squinted and prodded his arm.

“Sure thing, angel.”

Sometimes Crowley really does hate how much he remembers. He hates the way some piece of information is relayed to him and it just sticks, like a fly on flypaper, unable to move on from the subject. It doesn’t help the more he thinks about it, the more his skin begins to crawl in a way he didn’t think was possible. Ideas are not something to be taken with a grain of salt and Crowley knows this; he knows this because it’s usually _him_ planting the idea into the minds of those lesser creatures known as humans. For Aziraphale to unknowingly tempt him in 1933, to plant the idea inside his brain and leave it to fester for 86 years is something wholly unforgivable.

So it sits there, growing like a fungus in the back of his mind until one day he decides he can’t take it anymore. He can’t take the feeling of metaphorical maggots eating away at every last inch of his brain save for this one, singular part.

_We should go some time._

_Sure thing, angel._

He grips the wheel of the Bentley a little tighter than normal, knuckles white as he speeds down the streets of London.

_It has to do with stars._

Stars. That’s what sticks deep within Crowley’s brain. Sure, one could assume that the reason he’s driving at an accelerated speed down a crowded street somewhere near Regent’s Park is because Aziraphale had mentioned _the both of_ _them_ going to see stars, but if Crowley were honest -and that itself was a rarity- it was the word ‘stars’ that clung to his brain. Every time the word flashed in front of his eyes, his skin would burn. Even now, as he makes his way to Soho, something just beneath his skin tingles and burns.

“Call Aziraphale,” he hisses into his bluetooth as he makes a sharp left.

_CALLING….AZIRAPHALE._

Seconds tick by slow enough to be considered hours to Crowley as the phone rings. He tries not to think about it much, about how terribly fast his heart is racing; which is also funny because he doesn’t have a heart that’s beating. 

It has been exactly three years, six months, two weeks, seventeen days, eleven hours and forty-five minutes since the pair had last spoken, which was shortly after their successful body swap against Heaven and Hell. They had gone for lunch at the Ritz. Aziraphale had told him about what he did in Hell as Crowley, and likewise, Crowley had relayed the fun he had making Gabriel’s face turn all sorts of colors and shapes at the horror of not knowing what Aziraphale had become. After lunch, they had gone for a walk. They talked for hours about the last eleven years and how grateful they were to have known each other. It was then that Aziraphale had dropped what was quite literally and metaphorically a bomb on Crowley that he hadn’t been expecting.

“Well,” Aziraphale had said with a smile on his face as they walked through St. James’s Park, “perhaps this means we can take a proper holiday.”  
  
“Oh?” Crowley had managed to squeak out, his yellow eyes wide with surprise, unable to hold their human disguise as he looked at the angel walking beside him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale had begun, this time a little more carefully than before, “I mean, now that we will have some temporary time without orders, and we have been quite literally stuck at the hip, it would be nice to take a holiday. Have some space to ourselves to enjoy the Earth.”

“Oh.” Crowley had done his best to keep his chin up; to not think about what Aziraphale had said as being anything other than kind or helpful or whatever it was angels were supposed to be. He did his best to swallow the thick feeling at the back of his throat that he would have sworn was his heart clogged in his esophagus. “Right. Yeah. Sure thing, angel.”

Time ticks by slowly as Crowley speeds down a London street, his heart in the pit of his stomach as the phone rings and then clicks.

“Hello?” comes the voice of an angel. Crowley makes a sharp right, his tires squealing against the pavement.

“Oi! Angel. You busy?” Crowley barks loudly.

“Not...really.” There’s a muffled sound coming from the other end of the line, and the faint voices of several disgruntled patrons trying to get Aziraphale’s attention, “Is something the matter, dear?”

“Planetarium. You mentioned it once.” He pauses. Sharp right. “Want to go?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for what feels like an eternity and a half; silence, save for the voices of people mulling about the bookshop. The pause Aziraphale gives him is so long, so terribly, gut-wrenchingly long, that Crowley almost wonders if the angel has hung up on him, which is a silly thought, because he can still hear the patrons on the other end of the line. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes through the receiver and his voice is soft; so soft Crowley almost crashes the Bentley just because of how tender it is. But there’s something else there. There’s something hidden in the way Aziraphale says his name that makes Crowley’s metaphorical heart sink into his metaphorical stomach.

“Crowley, dear, that was _ages_ ago. I had thought…” and here Aziraphale pauses again, contemplation taking hold and forcing another long, overdrawn silence that makes Crowley’s skin burn louder than it has before. If only he could just get his fingernails under his skin and _rip it out_ , whatever it is, then perhaps maybe his brain would allow him to finally forget. He makes another hard right and rolls to a stop just across the street from the bookshop.

Crowley watches, listens, as the door to Aziraphale’s shop opens and closes, the little bell at the top of the door ringing almost on beat. He smiles a little as customers with little pouts and disappointed looks are being ushered out of the store. Still, silence looms on his bluetooth and he wonders if perhaps now the phone has been hung up. As the last remaining humans trickle out of the front door, Crowley hears the scrambling gestures of Aziraphale rushing to answer the phone.

“Apologies, my dear,” he says, and it sounds as though he’s out of breath- which is funny, considering neither of them actually _need to breathe_ , but he digresses and the smile creeps further across his face. 

“What’s...made you decide you wanted to go now?” Aziraphale asks, a little awestruck, his voice still so terribly soft and concerned.

“Dunno,” Crowley hums. He shifts a bit in his car to have a better view of the bookshop. He can see, for just a moment, Aziraphale puttering around through one of the windows- is he pacing?

“Just thought it’d be fun to go do. We saved the world an’ all. Thought we deserved a little treat.”

“A treat?” Aziraphale’s voice is definitely breathless now; shocked at Crowley and the mere idea that they would go and do something together that didn’t involve the arrangement. “Oh, oh my dear fellow-”

“S’fine if you don’t want to.” 

“I- I did not say that, Crowley.”

“Oh. Right then. So…?”  
  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, peering out the window. They catch eyes for a moment, and Crowley gives a little wave with his fingers.

“Crowley, how long have you been sitting outside the bookshop?”

He can hear the exasperation in Aziraphale’s voice; can feel the absolute resigning tone and slight disappointment in the angel’s voice as realization settles into that perfect little angelic head of his. He can hear the frustration from Aziraphale that Crowley chose to sit in his car rather than storm in like he had done oh so many times before in the past. He can hear the subtle heartbreak that Aziraphale relayed by seeing him just outside the window.

“Mmmmmf, uhh,” Crowley stammers, trying to avoid answering. _Long enough to watch you chase your customers from your store._ He doesn’t say this. Instead, he simply watches Aziraphale’s gaze leave the window, following with more silence before the phone clicks and he’s realized the call has ended. 

Crowley’s skin itches; it itches like he’s infested with bugs. He can feel them crawling and swarming over his flesh even as he keeps his gaze held steadfast to the window in hopes of seeing Aziraphale appear again to look at him with that disapproving look. He should have known better than coming here unannounced. 

What Crowley doesn’t expect is Aziraphale materializing right next to him in the Bentley. He’d probably not have even noticed if it weren’t for Aziraphale clearing his throat and settling into the passenger seat next to him, a frown firmly planting itself across his otherwise angelic face.

“Holy--” Crowley hisses, jumping a little when he realizes Aziraphale is sitting next to him. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, dear. This isn’t the first time.” Aziraphale chides and Crowley snorts in return. 

“Why didn’t you come into the shop?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley throws the Bentley into drive.

“Didn’t know if you were busy. Didn’t wanna intrude.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Aziraphale quips.

Crowley sits there a moment, allowing a beat of silence to pass between them. What’s he even to say? _You told me you wanted to be alone, so I left you alone. You told me you wanted space, so I gave it to you. You told me I moved too fast for you...what more do I need to do?_

“Dunno,” Crowley shrugs, “wasn’t sitting out there long. You don’t need to worry, angel.”

“I’m not _worried,_ Crowley,” comes the ever exasperated tone that is full of worry and Crowley knows it, because of course after six thousand and three years, one does not forget the tone of someone who is deeply worried about you and your life choices, “I’m just--”

“It’s fine.” Crowley interjects as he swerves in and out of traffic.

There’s a silence once more creeping up through the floors of the old car and into the air slowly turning stale between them. It aches; the void that’s nestled between them, and Crowley can feel it pushing up against him like waves up against the side of a cliff in the middle of a storm. There’s a storm brewing, here in his car, and he can feel it coming. He can feel it just below his skin like the tide waning with the moon’s gravitational pull and he knows it’s about to break land. 

He is not ready to weather it.

Crowley likes driving in the rain. In fact he prefers it. He enjoys the way the rain smacks against the windshield and how the steam rolls off the road in front of him. He likes to think that the rain is made up of a special type of holy water sent to cleanse the hellish landscape that is known as the Earth. But what he really loves about driving in the rain is how it feels on his skin. He’ll have the window rolled down, arm outstretched into the air as droplets pelt at skin and muscle. The sensation of having rain against your skin at that speed feels something similar to infinite pin pricks. It’s like acupuncture gone wrong; fireworks made of water that explode on impact and leave his skin goose-fleshed for more. To achieve this effect, Crowley drives 90mph down any given roadway, though for this he prefers highway driving. The sting of the rain helps him forget that the rest of his body tingles from something unknown to him.

Crowley likes to drive in the rain because the rain is painful. He doesn’t need to feel the small pops under his skin when he can feel the fireworks driving into his skin on a dreary day. Crowley likes to drive in the rain because it reminds him that he is alive.

“It’s good to see you,” Aziraphale finally says, and it’s as if the storm clouds have rolled in and the first flashes of lightning are appearing in the sky. “Are you doing alright?”

“You told me you wanted a holiday, angel,” Crowley retorts as he buckles down for the oncoming downpour, “so yeah, m’fine. Why?”

Aziraphale makes a face, and though Crowley isn’t looking, he knows it’s a face of apology and a face of frustration, because somewhere in this conversation, Aziraphale will tell him that he _took it all the wrong way._ Somehow, this is all _his fault_ for giving Aziraphale exactly what he asked for.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins again, this time a little more flustered than before. Crowley swivels his head and looks at Aziraphale through tinted shades and offers a thin lipped frown. “Crowley, dear, you know what I mean.”

Crowley chuckles. “You saying you missed me, angel?” He gives Aziraphale a smirk, turning his head to look as the angel’s cheeks begin to turn an astonishing array of reds. If he took the time to count, he reckons Aziraphale’s cheeks go through roughly fifty shades of embarrassment. 

“Eyes on the road!” Aziraphale starts, hands gripping anywhere they can as Crowley drives recklessly through downtown. It takes the angel a minute to settle before turning once more to Crowley.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. It’s only reality, angel.” Crowley hums as his head swings back to staring ahead at the road. There’s a momentary silence filling the void once again before the angel speaks.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft again; that kind of soft that lands somewhere between affectionate and heartbroken, and Crowley can’t determine where on that thin line it actually sits. If he’d had a heart, if his heart beat like any other human heart, he might have very well had a heart attack right then and there. 

“Oh,” is all he can muster as he continues to weave his way through the London traffic. 

The rest of the ride to the planetarium is done in silence.

There’s a kind of loneliness that is far worse than the other kinds. It comes in slowly, creeping at the base of your skull and seeping in right through the central nervous system until you find yourself uncontrollably shaking one night, alone. It’s the kind of loneliness that leaves you feeling steadfast in the choices you have made by looking at the glass as half empty. It sits in the pit of your stomach like acid boiling up slowly through the flesh of your body, slowly dissolving every last inch of you that holds you firmly against the Earth as it endlessly hurdles through space. This is a type of loneliness that settles into old bones and lets time ebb away at them until they are nothing but the dust of forgotten memories.

This is the feeling Crowley feels as he parks the Bentley outside the planetarium.

“Riiiiiiight, here we are, angel!” he says. He reclines against the driver’s seat, the fear in his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

Something stirs inside of him as they sit there in the car, Crowley looking up at the large building with half a dome built into the side of it. He can feel his skin prickle; those tiny fireworks worming their way up from his bones. If he’d had a central nervous system, Crowley surely would have believed something to be wrong with him. Yet, sensitivities aside, he can’t help but feel a hardness in his stomach on top of it all.

“Dear, if it’s too much-“ Aziraphale begins and Crowley is writhing softly in his seat; head snapping to catch Aziraphale’s gaze drop. 

“Too much? Angel, it’s just a _planetarium._ How is it going to be too much?” There’s a touch of frustration in his tone that makes Aziraphale recoil. 

“I-“ he begins, slinking down in his seat and looking away from Crowley. “You’re right, Crowley. Silly of me to think that. It’s just a planetarium.”

The building itself isn’t anything particularly special. Crowley can’t help but chuckle at the over-exuberant painting on the outside; like a crazy 1980’s display of shapes and colors, trying to convey an abstract depiction of space. Directly in the center of this large, terribly colored cube is an equally large dome protruding from the ceiling. Thankfully, it’s not painted. Crowley smirks as the pair approach the front entrance, with their arrival greeted by a bronze statue of a man in a spacesuit. 

“Humansss,” Crowley hisses to Aziraphale as he pauses to observe the statue, “they just don’t get it. Never do.”

“They’re doing their best, Crowley.”

He wants to respond, wants to tell Aziraphale that no, humans aren’t doing their best. He can write a list that would wrap around the Earth four times with every last sin they’ve created on their own. He wants to tell Aziraphale that sometimes being blatantly optimistic isn’t the right way to go. _Don’t stick up for the humans, angel. They would destroy Eden a thousand times over, even without my help._

He doesn’t say anything. 

The interior is equally as unimpressive. The walls are a strange opaque blueish grey, the floor is black with little flecks baked inside to resemble stars- they don’t remotely resemble stars- and the first thing visitors see when they walk in is a giant gift shop complete with Moon mascot. Crowley can feel himself cringe at the tacky nature; wasn’t this supposed to be some sort of dedication to the stars? To his work?

“Tell me, angel,” Crowley smirks as he stares at the man in a Moon costume, “how exactly are they doing their best?”

Aziraphale turns to look, face flustering at the embarrassing display in front of the gift shop. 

“Do not judge lest ye are free of sin to cast the first stone.” Aziraphale replies matter of factly, striding ahead of Crowley to secure tickets that had suddenly been procured for them. 

“Hnngk— I don’t dress up like the moon.” Crowley huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets and following. 

The first few rooms were nothing special. They were all small exhibits on things Crowley couldn’t have cared less about. One room that was dedicated to a meteorite was so small, he had the passing thought of putting a hypothetical monster into the brains of all the people in the room so he might enjoy the peace and quiet. 

When they cross the threshold into what is perhaps the second smallest room, Crowley has to stop and take a minute. Before him is an entire display dedicated to Halley’s Comet, and it’s trajectory across all of space, and every recorded report of the comet passing by Earth. 

For Crowley, Halley is not a comet, but another flaw in his otherwise perfect universe.

Halley’s Comet, as it’s currently known, was never _meant_ to exist. Halley’s Comet, to Crowley, is the last planet he had attempted to make when he Fell. He had breathed life into her, breathed his essence into what was to be her very existence when Hellfire swept him up and pulled him under. She had fallen from his grasp, hurdling endlessly as a seed of creation never to grow into what she had meant to be; singed with the smallest flames of Hellfire and doomed to endlessly travel across the stars.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is standing next to him in the door, a look of concern crossing his face as he takes in Crowley’s look of absolute heartbreak. These humans, taking his creations and his flaws and putting them on display. He’s not sure how to feel in this moment as he takes a step into the room, his shoulders falling limp as he stares at his final creation. In the center of the room hangs a replica encased in bronze. It’s fairly large, though in retrospect larger than when he had her in his hands.

But then again, could he even really remember just how big she was when he’d fallen? Maybe she had grown over the years afterall; she would just never be what she was meant to be.

“Dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale’s voice rings through again, soft and tender as he comes up behind Crowley. There’s silence as he stares ahead at the bronze statue, unsure of how to handle it all. 

“Mmm, yeah…” Crowley’s voice is soft; softer than it’s ever been before. His eyes are subconsciously reverting to their normal state. Reality is bending around him as he allows his snake eyes to flutter from reality to their true form and back. Aziraphale looks to Crowley as Crowley stares at the statue with his mouth open.

“Yeah,” he finally says, distant after a moment. There’s something there, right behind his eyes that he’s unsure of; tears, perhaps? He’s blinking them back, swallowing thickly and shoving his hands into his pockets, turning on a heel and strutting out the door.

“M’fine, angel.”

The following room wasn’t anything particularly exciting to Crowley. It was a large enough room, he supposed. All along the walls little figurines of planets hung; several posters with information about each planet sat on a pedestal, and in the center a big circular table projecting what appeared to be an image of the rotating Milky Way galaxy in current time. 

“Eugh,” he sneers, hands shoving into pants pockets as he and Aziraphale begin their walkthrough. 

“Marvelous,” gasps Aziraphale at one of the displays. 

“Wrong.” Crowley’s voice is curt and brash as he stares at the display. 

“Oh?”

“Not the name. Not what it looks like.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s voice is a little softer now, pulling back to look at Crowley. “What is its name then?”

“Artemis. S’what I remember it being called.” He looks away; his nerves ache and he can feel his fingers trembling to scratch at the itch just below his skin. 

“Oh. I see.” Aziraphale is soft again as he pauses to look at it all. “Artemis. A much more suiting name, I think.” He turns to Crowley and Crowley recoils, looking away and down at his arm. A cold hand rubs over his jacket, as if perhaps rubbing hard enough will cure him of the sudden ache in his bones.

The rest of the room was much the same; Aziraphale puttering around to each display and pointing at it; making umbrella comments about how nice they looked and how wonderful and creative humans’ minds could be. Each time, Crowley finds himself huffing and crossing his arms tighter against his chest, muttering ‘wrong’ under his breath. 

Why do humans always have to muck things up? Why can’t they ever leave well enough alone? Crowley could never understand it, and the mere thoughts bother him more than the acts laid out in front of him. This whole museum dedicated to things just beyond their reach, a building built to view the stars and solar systems that he so clearly remembers working on with a tender affection that he’d never once shown before. They came, they saw, and they _ruined._ Humanity took what was his and they soiled it; like they soil everything. They took their gifts from God and they soiled them. Sure, he had helped with that one, but he had been told that humanity was some Grand Plan. In the end, they were nothing more than hairless apes who couldn’t say no to a shiny object.

Humanity is simple. Humanity is reckless. 

Crowley sighs as they shuffle towards the large table in the center of the room, and for once in this drab and dark place Crowley feels something pull at heartstrings he wasn’t sure he had. 

The table is large, large enough for any group of people to huddle around and watch as the projector overhead beams down what is labeled as a “Real Time View Of the Milky Way System”. In front of them, cast against a vantablack glass surface sits a light rendition of the Milky Way and all the planets and stars swirling inside of it. A few children standing on tip toes try in vain to reach into the galaxy and touch some of the stars. Somewhere deep within Crowley’s heart he feels something stir and warm; children always did understand how the world worked better than the adults ever did. It was like a magic that was understood by all, only to be slowly lost over time with age. That, Crowley knows, is something God instilled in their hardware. Humanity was curious and brave and constantly in awe, until they became adults. Until they resembled Adam and Eve physically. Then, and only then, the magic would drip away from their eyes and they would forget. They would stop looking up at his creation, because he was a demon damned to watch the only thing he loved more than Her slowly fade from the minds of the thing She loved most.

What does it matter anyway, in the end? The stars weren’t made for humans. They were made for Her. They were his way of showing Her his love. He had tried to make them in Her likeness. Had hoped humanity would one day look to _his_ creation and they would sing songs praising Her. Maybe, he had thought, they would see Her through his work. But no- no they saw bears and naked men and large bugs. Crowley chuckles at the thought of the planets- did humans know that he had grown them? That he had taken pieces of himself and grew each and every one into what they called...Jupiter, and Uranus. Did Aziraphale know? Did he even remember? 

In some tragic way, he supposes, watching Aziraphale point out several stars and try to name them; it’s almost a kindness that the angel doesn’t remember. It’s a cruel sort of kindness She gave Crowley; allowing humanity to build these shrines for the planets and galaxies that he poured his entire essence into..

“Is Pluto a planet?” comes the soft question of a child to their mother. Crowley’s head snaps, his body moving subconsciously towards the pair. 

“Of course it is,” he hums, slithering up next to her, smiling down at the child, “Pluto was the first planet.”

There’s a moment of silence- not long enough to be awkward, but long enough for Crowley to see the wonderment in the child’s eyes. The child’s eyes widen as they gasp. Crowley winks one serpent eye. 

“Mummy,” they cry, “look at his eyes!”

The mother pulls her child closer, looking before frowning at her child. 

“It’s not nice to stare,” she chastises before offering Crowley an apologetic smile. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says with earnest, tugging her child away, “have a good day. Enjoy the planetarium!”

Pluto was meant to be a planet. In fact; Crowley was telling the truth. It was the first- The first thing he’d ever properly created. Sure, it was smaller than the others- farthest away from the Sun, but it was his. He remembers this, because Crowley remembers everything. The details are hazy, but he remembers that moment when he had breathed into the small dust clumped in his hands, molding it until it became a little sphere. 

_You will grow into something amazing,_ he had thought as he gently blew its existence into the universe. He had been happy then. He had always loved growing planets. 

It was a shame he had never gotten to see Pluto through. Sometimes Crowley wonders if perhaps it didn’t grow because it lacked enough love. Perhaps he hadn’t had enough of that in the beginning. Perhaps Pluto stopped growing when he fell- he doesn’t remember what exactly happened. Pluto never grew into what it was meant to be, but still it hung in the depths of space. Still, it followed the path of the Sun, even when humanity declared it not good enough. 

Pluto and Crowley are one in the same. Humanity had forsaken his first creation; She had forsaken him. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale is standing next to him once more, concern creasing against his forehead. Crowley turns and nods, shrugging away from Aziraphale. He can feel something under his skin burning.

“Mmm. Yeah. M’fine, angel.”

“Perhaps this was a bad idea,” Aziraphale mutters softly as he turns to look at the displays and then back to Crowley.

“Mmm?” Crowley manages, turning and raising a brow at him, “How so? It’s fine. It’s a bit _boring,_ and they’ve got all the facts wrong but...it’s fine.”

“That’s not what I mean--”

“Then what do you mean, exactly, angel?”

He’s curt now; can feel the venom in his voice as he looks to Aziraphale with wide eyes. _This was your idea, angel. Back in 1933. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember anything?_

“This was your idea, angel,” His voice is rising now, serpent eyes growing wider as he stares at Aziraphale, licking his lips and tasting the air, “don’t you remember? _You’d_ suggested we go. So here we are.” It’s there, stronger now; the pain in his nerve endings is stinging at his skin as if forcefully trying to remind him that there’s something _missing just beyond his reach._

“Yes, I remember,” Aziraphale responds in kind, his own tone growing curt. Crowley bares his teeth as his hand starts running over his arm, scratching at his skin. _It burns. It burns. What is it, and why is it burning?_

It aches; this feeling under his skin. It burns and it aches the longer he stands here in this room, with Aziraphale staring at him. This was a bad idea and he knows it. He knows, deep down that this idea of going to a planetarium; of trying to meet up with Aziraphale after three years, six months, two weeks, seventeen days, thirteen hours and fifteen minutes was wrong. He knows, and he doesn’t know why he thought maybe, _maybe_ it would be different. Maybe they could have had a good time, have chuckled at humanity’s lack of imagination when it came to his work, but instead he’s angry and his skin burns and he doesn’t know where to turn to.

So he walks.

He turns on a heel, snarling and throwing his hands into the air and walks out of the room. He can hear Aziraphale behind him, the anger and curt tone of the other changing to worry as he calls Crowley’s name. Crowley doesn’t want to hear it; he doesn’t want to hear anything. This was just a waste of time; this planetarium. He knows the planets by name, knows the stars where they hang in the sky, and yet somehow he just can’t seem to understand why his nerve endings burn louder here than anywhere else. 

Crowley isn’t sure what’s worse about this place. The smell? The lackluster models showing off his best work and ultimately failing at even capturing their essence? Perhaps it’s his skin and his inability to remember this _one fucking thing._ It doesn’t matter, none of it really matters, because all Crowley wants to do is run. He’s good at that, running. He ran in 1801 right after Aziraphale opened his bookshop. He ran after Aziraphale chided him in the Kingdom of Wessex. He even ran when he knew the world was coming to an end because he just couldn’t deal with it.

He turns down a corridor; it’s not one he remembers. There are strange multicolored blobs on the wall, each one depicting a star or star system. Crowley glances at these strange, alien looking blobs against the wall with their descriptions, teeth baring at all the wrong descriptions.

What do humans know, anyway? What could they possibly understand about the complexity of _his_ universe? Not Hers. Never Hers. She gave him the ability to create and that’s what he did. He created the moon and the stars and the planets; each one a part of him in some capacity- that much he knows- and it was for Her. But it was not Her creation. It was his.

The corridor stretches on for what feels like forever, and it only frustrates Crowley more. Yet there’s a light at the end of this never-ending tunnel and he’s all too happy to walk into it. The room is dark. It’s dome shaped and dark, lit at the bottom by a blue light. There are several lights projecting things across the room, but he’s preoccupied; angry even at this place. How dare they? How dare humans take _his_ universe and turn it into some play thing, with their wrong names and incorrect displays. Crowley reaches up and snatches his sunglasses before ripping them off and hissing to himself. His skin is on fire; he can feel it like a million bugs crawling up his skin and into his throat, but he holds steadfast. 

“Gadreel.”

The name comes out like a whisper, and Crowley is turning sharply on a heel, his ears attuned to a name that is so familiar yet somehow so distant.

Aziraphale is standing there, in the room, his eyes wide and hands covering his mouth. It’s slipped; a forgotten name and a thousand million memories lost to time. It takes Crowley a moment, just a moment, to allow his eyes to properly adjust to the room as he stares. Aziraphale is covered in lights, except they’re not lights. They’re stars. 

They both stand there, silent, allowing the moment to flow between them as blood chills in their veins. A name spoken, forgotten to time; a name found, dug up from the rubble of a forgotten grave.

Aziraphale is bathed in starlight, it’s human starlight; but it’s starlight all the same. The lights ping and flow around his body, swirling over his jacket and forehead; his hair is littered with the smallest of universes dancing effortlessly across his skin. He stares at Crowley, and Crowley can see the starlight dancing in his eyes. Aziraphale takes a step closer, a hand moving from his mouth to reach out to Crowley and it’s as if he’s seen a ghost. 

“What did you say?” he finally manages to choke out through a dry mouth and Aziraphale is standing there, shaking his head frantically.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, taking a step towards him but Crowley recoils. Something’s burning in his chest now; bigger than the tingling that singe his arms and face.

“What did you call me?” His voice is stern, shaking but he’s still looking at Aziraphale.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, and this time his expression has changed from horror to something landing on forlorn. It’s this that makes Crowley look from Aziraphale down to his arms, and that’s when he sees it.

Crowley remembers almost everything.

In fact, he prides himself on it, because he knows that remembering is the key to his survival. When he stops and stares at himself in this darkened room with its light show lamps overhead projecting down endless universes upon his body, he wishes he could forget.

Crowley is bathed in starlight. 

It’s human starlight, but starlight all the same. His eyes widen as he looks at himself. His hands, arms, legs, clothes are all covered in tiny glowing lights that are dancing around his body. He can see them, finally, for the first time in over six thousand years. Tiny little lies that God had sewn into his being. For the first time, Crowley can see the burning lights dancing around his skin and can feel his nerve endings popping at the sight of it. 

There’s a moment when realization hits and you’re incapable of justifying it with logic. When you know something to be true, and yet your brain does everything in its power to stop you from understanding the situation in any other way except for emotionally. That feeling of realization when your favorite television character is killed off, or when you see something utterly horrific on the news; or when you’ve lost something near and dear to your heart and you know exactly where you left it but it’s still gone missing. That heart aching, stomach dropping sensation when realization hits and your brain just simply refuses to catch up. That’s where Crowley is now as he thumbs over his right arm and watches projected starlight dance across his body.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is distant to the sudden drumming going off in Crowley’s head. He doesn’t hear him; his hands are too busy, too focused with the task at hand as he thumbs over each and every pin prick feeling his skin relays. Everywhere, he can see these lights dance around his body and drift slowly from a point of origin to a new destination; every time a light lands on his skin, he can feel the singe of where something used to be. Was it a planet? A star? Nebula? The questions are endless, and Crowley can’t seem to find the words as he scans his body over and over and over; desperate to remember. To remember this moment, this feeling, this _knowledge_ brought before him.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale says a little louder, a little sterner as he approaches. Crowley’s head snaps to attention, snake eyes reverted back to their normal non-human state with wide pupils as he stares slack jawed at Aziraphale.

“Say it.” His throat is dry. His hands are shaking.

“Crowley, dear-”

“No. My name. My _angel_ name. Say it.”

Aziraphale stands there, his entire face having lost color and looking terribly withdrawn at the mistake he’s made. Yet as an angel of the Lord he stands there, his hands wringing together as he looks at Crowley; he cannot disobey. He cannot tell a blatant lie.

“Gadreel.” Aziraphale finally says, his blue eyes looking away immediately as the name escapes his lips. Crowley finds himself angry at the name; angry that Aziraphale knows it; angry that he’d forgotten.

But that was all part of God’s plan, wasn’t it? To torment those who had Questioned Her. So it seemed she had chosen Crowley’s torments to be rememberance. He would have snarled right then and there; snarled and brought all of Hell upon the planetarium. But he refrains; he holds back the anger and the vitriol lodged in his throat as he stands and watches Aziraphale’s guilt flood throughout his body, as if watching Aziraphale feel guilty is punishment enough. 

It’s not.

It would be funny, Crowley supposes, that he’s given a choice just like the humans he so desperately loved alongside Aziraphale, if only the punchline wasn’t such a bummer. 

Crowley could:

Take out his frustrations on every last human in this godforsaken building; raining hellfire all around him and levelling the building to the ground. It wasn’t as if the humans had done right by his creations anyway. He would spare Aziraphale, of course, in this scenario- a testament to his _kindness_ as Aziraphale always liked to put it. They could stand in the ruin, bathed no longer in starlight, but in the rubble.

_or_

Crowley could walk out. Leave Aziraphale here, at the Planetarium with its fake named planets and poorly constructed dioramas, and fuck off. He could go anywhere- to any planet, any nebula, any star system he could think of, and leave his angel here, alone, just like God had done to him so many times before. Crowley could go wander amongst his creations for a century and come back and try to talk it over. After all, it _was_ all Aziraphale’s idea in the first place. 

To come here. 

To take a break.

It’s a choice Crowley finds himself desperately trying to wrap his head around as Aziraphale takes another step forward in an attempt to comfort him. To ease the pain of what’s currently happening in Crowley’s head.

“Don’t,” Crowley hisses, stepping back as his eyes wander from Aziraphale back to his arms and legs once more, still covered in artificial starlight. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pleads, “please, listen. I can--”

But Crowley is off. He’s marching down the hallway at speed, his hands balled into fists as he makes his way through the winding corridors of the planetarium. There’s nothing in his brain; no voices, no follow through of thought. Just a void of empty emotion, numbness seeping through his head and into every last being of his essence. He can hear Aziraphale following, calling for him to stop. To listen. To hear any kind of explanation. Crowley wants none of that. He snarls, snapping his fingers and teleports into the Bentley. His hands grip tightly to the steering wheel as he stares ahead. He doesn’t know what to do. 

Crowley’s primal reflexes have always been fight or flight. When presented to him, Crowley errs on the side of flight. He’s good at it; he’s been at it for 6,000 years. He had tried to flee when the world was coming to an end. He had slept for an entire century just to escape Aziraphale and their many discussions about Holy Water. He’d even managed to run away shortly after Jesus had been hung from the cross; traveling all the way to Rome to hide away his anger and frustrations at the world God had created for mankind. If there was one skill Crowley possessed, it was running away. Yet here, now, sitting in his car in the parking lot of a planetarium, he finds himself stuck in a new position: frozen. He can’t move, can’t seem to find the strength to throw the Bentley into gear. Anger, frustration, confusion- all of them swirl around his head and begin to slowly eat at him. 

“Crowley.”

The voice of Aziraphale cuts through him like a hot knife. His head snaps to look at Aziraphale who is sitting next to him in the parked Bentley. Crowley can see now; he can see the fearful and terrified look in Aziraphale’s eyes. The kind of look only a guilty person would have upon realizing what they’ve done wrong. He can see Aziraphale’s desires to make amends, to fix this wrong; to go back and pretend like it never happened. Except, Crowley knows, you can’t fix what’s already been broken.

“Crowley, please, I—”

Crowley snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale is gone.

Crowley throws the car into gear and tears off for a destination he’s not been in some time. 

There once was an abbey in Wales. A beautiful thing, set against rolling hills and a small river. Picturesque would barely begin to describe the beauty it holds. Monks would often refer to it as God’s greatest achievement. It had been self-sustaining, having been built in 1131, a few hundred years just before the plague struck Europe. It had been a beautiful place; calm, serene, a place where travelers stopped and found refuge. 

It had also been a place both Crowley and Aziraphale had visited in their time.

Shortly after their encounter in Wessex, Crowley had found himself wandering the borders of what would one day be Wales and England. It was pretty enough, but he had been put out on a mission to stir trouble in local villages and begin what would have been essentially village wars. It wasn’t hard to tempt one village leader into thinking they needed more land for their exceptionally small village, and Crowley was very good at what he did. When he had stumbled upon Tintern abbey, however, things had slightly changed.

Aziraphale had found himself working within the grounds of Tintern, offering help wherever he could. There was a reason Tintern had been as successful as it was, considering its location. While the monks prayed to God for their luck, it was Aziraphale who had been planting small miracles into the gardens and helping lost travelers find their way to the stone haven. After all, abbeys had been a place of good and fair trade up until the Black Plague; and it was Aziraphale’s duty to see to it that all the churches kept up their honest lives.

So when the pair had met up sometime in 1137, it had been no surprise that there was some bad air hanging over them.

“No,” Aziraphale began one night, “I don’t care how…economical it is, I’m not going to be doing any of your...devilish work for you, because you’re feeling lazy!” His voice had been stern, his eyes narrowed at Crowley. 

“I’m not lazy,” Crowley had groaned, “I just think, instead of constantly running into each other and canceling each other out, we could cover more areas by doing a little bit of each other’s work. It makes perfect sense.”

The moon sat high in the sky as it casted down its light upon the pair. They stood just beyond the gates, their bodies silhouetted against the night sky. A few monks had been watching, but neither of them acknowledged the whispers that flowed through the abbey.

“Ab-absolutely not,” Aziraphale snapped, his arms crossed, “I honestly cannot believe you’re still hanging onto this, Craw-Crowley. Why must you be so stubborn?”

“Why must you be so stubborn, angel?” Crowley hissed. 

“Because,” Aziraphale huffed, “while I think you are a wily, and crude serpent, I do think you have more self-respect for yourself than to beg an angel for help in doing your dirty laundry. I’ve seen your work.” Aziraphale paused, and took in a sharp breath. “And it’s nice to have some friendly competition. Not that enemies can be friends. Or that we’re equally matched. Because we aren’t. Clearly.”

Crowley had raised a brow, a smile played across his face. “Friendss?” he hissed with amusement. “You’d call us friends?”

“Well,” Aziraphale had begun, lowering his arms, “I wouldn’t say we were friends. I said, _like_ friends. But I do respect you for the work you do. Even if you do always fail, because the seeds of evil will never reach their full potential so long as I’m here to thwart your wiles.”

It had been, if Crowley was honest with himself, the first time either of them had shown any sort of openness towards each other. It hadn’t been all formalities that night, and it was something Crowley kept with him. Sure, shortly after that night Crowley sat atop a rock near the abbey and shouted abuse at the stone church. Sure, he spent a good few weeks getting drunk on that rock on a hill overlooking Tintern and screaming at Aziraphale from afar. He’d even thrown some rocks and empty tankards at the abbey, hoping perhaps he’d hit a window and scare the monks. He’d never been successful, but it was cathartic nonetheless. The monks had named the rock the Devil’s Pulpit shortly after Crowley had left. 

So really, it’s no surprise that Crowley finds himself parking along the road near the rock he once sat upon for weeks as night takes hold of the land. He knows he can’t run; can’t fly away like he used to think he could do. There is no Alpha Centauri that he can go to, because going there would mean he would be absolutely alone. As much as he wishes he could, Crowley knows that running away like that would be a permanent fissure in their already rocky second chance at life on Earth. So he goes to a place he knows he can get away from it all, while still being close enough to get home.

It’s strange; the feeling of absolute calm that washes over you when you’ve hit your lowest point. The calm that settles in your bones and in your muscles, doesn’t allow you to move. You just sit there, and stare. Many would call this zoning out, but there’s a clear difference between the two. When one zones out, when they actively allow their mind to wander, everything ends up at the forefront of their brain. When one’s brain goes completely silent; that’s a whole different experience. There’s just nothing. A void of space where something one stood and had value inside your mind- simply purged of knowledge. 

Crowley clambers up onto the boulder and sits. There’s nothing here. Not the sound of a passing car along the road just down the hill, nor the sound of an owl in the trees. There’s just silence; vast and endless. The only fortunate thing- perhaps unfortunate- is that the sky is clear this night. There are no clouds to obstruct his view of the endless sky. It shines in a way he hasn’t seen in years, and somehow it makes him sick to his stomach. Crowley looks down at his arms, no longer covered in artificial starlight and he feels as if perhaps he might vomit. Even now, he can feel the distant burning against his skin; the painful reminder of who he once was, what he had truly done, and the understanding of what it was he had forgotten.

“So,” he starts, venom dripping in his voice, “that’s it, then, God? That’s your plan?” Crowley can feel the anger, the betrayal begin to bubble up inside of him.

“Take it all bloody away from us? Our punishment? Forget what we bloody did for You and mankind? And then make us live in Your “perfect” world and be mocked?!”

Everything is gone. Every bit of emotion drains from him as he slams his fists against the boulder. A few chunks break apart. His hands begin to bleed from the force.

“Are You happy?! Some...great bloody plan you had there, God! Ooohh, how ‘ineffable’ it all is, isn’t it? Such a great, bloody, ineffable plan of yours that you don’t even let us demons remember the good we did for You? For them?” He pauses, picks up a rock from the pile he’s created and throws it at the abbey. He knows it won’t hit, knows the distance is too great, but he throws it all the same. It’s a perfect parallel, in some sick and twisted way.

Crowley grabs a handful of rocks and rock shards as he stands up. 

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, God. Hope you’re really loving how Aziraphale and I bloody saved your creation from your bloody goonies! Every one of them, God. We stopped them. We saved your precious little hobby.” 

He throws another rock at the ruins down below. The rock pings off a tree and tumbles pathetically down the hill.

“I could have run,” he snarls, “could have convinced Aziraphale-- could have _tempted_ him to leave. I tried. M’sure you knew that, didn’t you? Was that part of your Great, Holy, Ineffable Plan? To let your only loyal angel bloody Fall? Mmmm? Do you even care about them? About us?”

Crowley throws several more rocks. 

He wants to scream. 

He wants God to answer.

Neither of these things happen.

So he stands there. He stares at the remnants of an abbey he once visited. He stares at the hills and the darkness. He stares at the never-ending sky overflowing with stars. Finally, he stares at his arms and hands. Crowley lets out a defeated sigh and sits back down, allowing silence to once again wash over him.

Somewhere in the distance, a twig snaps and breaks the silence.

Crowley doesn’t turn around. He knows who it is.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls. Crowley doesn’t answer. He doesn’t turn around as Aziraphale approaches and climbs up onto the boulder, sitting next to him. They sit there, silent, staring out over the hills and the valley below. Crowley would ask how Aziraphale could have found him so quickly, but, he already knows the answer. They’ve always been able to find each other. Angels can sense love and kindness. Demons can sense temptation and sin. They can sense each other wherever they are in the world if need be; all they would have to do is try.

It’s clear to Crowley that Aziraphale had tried. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, voice gentle. He’s looking at Crowley now, boring his bright blue eyes into Crowley’s skull and Crowley can feel the stare burning against his face. He can feel himself wanting to run again, wanting to snap his fingers and send Aziraphale back to his bookshop where he belongs.

He doesn’t.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale continues, “I am...you weren’t...There aren’t enough things I can say to make this right. To fix this. I am just, so sorry for keeping this from you.”

Crowley turns to finally look Aziraphale in the eye. He’s tired. Aziraphale shifts a little closer.

“Why?” Crowley finally manages, “Why did She make me forget? Why do you remember? I thought...You’d said you had to forget. S’why do you remember?”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, “oh my dear. It is, it is such a terribly complicated and long story. Even I don’t know all of the details of it.”  
  
“Mmm. Got time now though, angel.” Crowley’s voice is distant. He turns to look back at the stars. “Be nice to know something.”

“Well,” Aziraphale shifts nervously, “shortly after the Rebellion, we were sent a memo. A sort of... request from On High. It told us that it would be best for us to all wipe our memories of the Fallen.”

Aziraphale fiddles with his pocket watch. He breaks his gaze with Crowley, and Crowley can’t help but sigh loudly. 

“Gabriel, was it?” Crowley asks dryly.

“Metatron, actually,” Aziraphale squeaks, “it seemed to be something truly coming from The Almighty.”

There’s a moment of silence between them.

“No one actually followed up with it, you see,” Aziraphale continues, “because I think they truly believed we would all just forget. I, I, I, well, you see, I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to at least have the events recorded. So there could be an account of it. So I thought, ‘I will forget this as soon as I can have it written down on paper.’ ” Aziraphale gives a sheepish smile as he shakes his head. Crowley watches silently.

“Never got around to it, did you, angel?” Crowley finally says. His voice is monotone, though Aziraphale can swear he hears the faintest hint of amusement.

“No. No, I’m, I’m terribly afraid I didn’t. Everything happened so fast with being promoted to Guardian of the Easten Gate. And then, well, you know the rest, my dear.”

Aziraphale settles, silent and looks ahead out across the valley. Crowley too, is silent, though only for a moment.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Crowley feels himself asking. There’s a pit in his stomach growing larger and heavier as the words leave his mouth.

“Because,” Aziraphale says, “at first I wasn’t sure...I wasn’t sure I could trust you. You are a demon after all. We were on different sides. I didn’t– I didn’t want to give the opposition any kind of leverage.” There’s shame in his tone as he looks down at his hands, then back up to the night sky.

“But I realized, I believe, after all we had been through; perhaps I could...come around to the idea. To fix it, somehow. Or just, write it down and forget it. I had hoped, back in 1933, when I’d mentioned the planetariums coming about, that you would have gone then. I had hoped I could...observe you.”

“Observe me?” Crowley muses. There’s a tinge of pain in his voice. Aziraphale winces.

“I didn’t mean-” Aziraphale begins, then sighs, “I wanted to see if there was anything you remembered. I wanted to know if you knew. Or if you didn’t...I didn’t want to cause _this_.”

Once again, silence overtakes the pair. They sit for what feels like an eternity, watching the stars twinkle in the sky. A breeze brushes past them both, and Crowley feels the sharp air cut through his body. It’s cold, and yet somehow, he can’t find the strength anymore to warm himself up. So he sits there, watching the sky.

“I made them all,” Crowley says as he finally breaks the silence. Aziraphale starts a bit, turning to look at him and offering a sympathetic look.

“I know,” Aziraphale replies.

“I used to be made of it. Starlight. I…,” Crowley says, his eyes turning from the sky to his arm. He rolls up his jacket sleeve and looks at the bare skin. He swears he can see them faintly, but he knows it’s just his memory filling in the gap where stars and planets once resided.

“I used to be starlight. That was who I was. I used to be _so much_. And now I’m just…” Crowley trails off.

“You’re still starlight, my dear,” Aziraphale counters. He shuffles a little closer to Crowley, “oh, my darling, you are still so much. Even if you’re not an angel. You aren’t any less of who you were then. You are so, so, so much, Crowley.”

“Oh please, angel. Don’t.” Crowley sighs. “Not even my eyes are starlight,” he adds weakly. He can’t bear to look Aziraphale in the face. He can’t bring himself to do anything.

“Oh, oh my dear,” Aziraphale begins, “that’s not true at all.”

Aziraphale extends his hand towards Crowley.

“Please,” Aziraphale says softly, “let me show you.”

There’s desperation in Aziraphale’s eyes, a need to prove something, and Crowley is unsure what to make of it. Slowly, hesitantly, he relinquishes his hand to Aziraphale. He watches as Aziraphale rolls back his jacket sleeve even further, exposing skin that still tingles at the thought of those artificial stars. 

Aziraphale smiles. He takes Crowley’s hand and lifts it up. He kisses Crowley’s knuckle, and Crowley’s skin begins to burn. Soft lips, gentle and lovingly lift from his knuckle, only to be replaced on the underside of his wrist. Crowley tries to stifle a noise as Aziraphale begins to map constellations across his hand and up his arm. 

For a fraction of a second, Crowley can’t think. It’s not like the emptiness he’s felt before; this is something new. It’s something strange and foreign and he can’t help but try and steady himself as Aziraphale plants a gentle kiss against his forearm. Crowley’s breath catches in his throat as he tries to say something, anything, to get the sudden burning sensation to stop. The thing is, Crowley doesn’t want it to stop. He wants it. He wants it and he hates that he wants it.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley manages as Aziraphale drags his lips back down towards Crowley’s wrist and plants a kiss against the tender skin. Aziraphale stops, blue eyes shooting up to look at Crowley.

“Ahh- I’m, I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” Crowley begins. He shifts and pulls Aziraphale closer. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flutter as the space between them closes.

“Show me. I want to see.”

Aziraphale swallows, looks at Crowley and nods. He watches as Aziraphale takes his hands, and begins to gently plant a kiss against his palm.

“This,” Aziraphale says into the kiss, “is where Neptune came from.”

Crowley inhales as Aziraphale pulls him in closer. Aziraphale hums softly, his hands fumbling to take off Crowley’s jacket. He places a kiss over Crowley’s neck.

“You took Venus from here,” Aziraphale breathes against his neck. Crowley’s eyes close as Aziraphale’s lips trail up his neck; each spot burning a little hotter than the last. He can’t tell if it’s Aziraphale’s angelic lips, or if it’s all just in his head.

“Angel,” Crowley mutters. It’s barely a whisper as his jacket is shrugged off. His own hands are fumbling to pull Aziraphale closer; he wants nothing more than to melt in Aziraphale’s grace. To be taken wholly and fully by this being of light who’s lovingly mapping stars across his endless being.

Aziraphale only smiles as he runs his hands down Crowley’s torso, kissing his jawline. “Earth,” he says in a low voice. His blue eyes watch as Crowley’s mouth opens slightly, turning in to kiss Aziraphale on the lips, but Aziraphale smiles and pulls away. His hands are slowly, agonizingly undoing the buttons of Crowley’s shirt.

Everything and nothing begin to happen all at once. Each spot Aziraphale kisses burns Crowley just enough to leave him wanting more. His hands begin to move up Aziraphale’s arms as he feels the cold rush of wind begin to roll over exposed skin as Aziraphale pushes his shirt from his body. 

“You are so beautiful,” Aziraphale muses as he kisses Crowley’s collar bone. Crowley makes a small noise as Aziraphale traces his lips against bare skin and bone.

“Eris used to live here,” Aziraphale hums as he kisses the base of Crowley’s neck. It takes every ounce of his being to not grab Aziraphale and beg him to stop. To try and switch the situation; to let Crowley praise Aziraphale and worship him the way he’s being worshiped. He stays as silent as he can, listening to Aziraphale murmur soft words of praise against his skin.

With his shirt and jacket removed, Crowley finds himself exposed against the rock as Aziraphale begins to trail kisses down his neck and chest. He pauses against the area where Crowley’s heart would have lived if he were human. Aziraphale gives a hum before placing a kiss against cold skin.

“Wha--” Crowley says thickly.

“It’s where the sun came from, my love,” Aziraphale smiles. He places another kiss over his heart before trailing further down Crowley’s stomach. Crowley can, for the first time in what feels like forever, swears that he can feel the heat of the sun inside his chest. He can feel the residual burn of the sun against his chest where Aziraphale had only just been. Crowley feels the warmth of Aziraphale, and the heat of the sun merging into one. 

He can’t do it. 

Crowley’s arms shift to grab at Aziraphale’s jacket, pulling him back up until their eyes meet. If Crowley had anything to say, he had surely forgotten the words that had only moments before been buzzing in his head. Aziraphale looks at him, confused.

“Am I...going too fast for you?” 

The question hits Crowley like a semi as Aziraphale looks at him with concern. How ironic it is that Aziraphale thinks he could ever go too fast for Crowley. Crowley simply smiles, pushes himself up and kisses Aziraphale on the lips. The surprised noise that seeps through Aziraphale’s mouth is enough for Crowley. He smiles against the kiss. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale as they both melt into their surroundings.

“Don’t think that’s possible,” Crowley muses. He stares into Aziraphale’s perfect blue eyes and suddenly he feels like he’s flying. It’s as if his wings have grown anew, large and colorful and ready for flight. Crowley smiles and places a gentle kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Thank you,” he finally says. There’s a moment of silence, a moment of wonder and awe and confusion seeping into Aziraphale’s face as he stares down at Crowley.

“For what, dear?” he asks.

“For reminding me of who I am.” Crowley smirks. He sits up and takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own. Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s hand.

Crowley remembers everything. He remembers the day he sprung up in the Garden of Eden. He remembers the children left behind when the Great Flood came and washed the Earth clean save for Noah and his family. Crowley remembers the first time Aziraphale looked at him a certain way and how it made his heart do funny things in his chest. 

Mostly, he realizes, he remembers the little things; the details in Aziraphale’s smile, or how he wears a bowtie. He catches glimpses from the side of his eye when Aziraphale thinks he isn’t looking. He remembers where he came from. He remembers what it took to get him to where he is now; sat on a boulder in the middle of Wales with Aziraphale’s hand locked in his as they gaze up at the stars littering the night sky. 


End file.
